


Rituals

by GreatGawain



Series: The Adventures of Pink Floyd [9]
Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Gen, Not Slash, is this slash?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25565164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreatGawain/pseuds/GreatGawain
Summary: Another year without Richard. Another year alone. David recalls the memories he shared with one of his best friends
Series: The Adventures of Pink Floyd [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772323
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	Rituals

His alarm went off and as he silenced it, he noticed the date: _July 28._ He took a deep breath.

Another year.

He knew what it meant. The rest of his family knew what it meant, too, and their grief participated in their own ways – but they still knew in the back of their minds that this was something else entirely for David. Something that wasn’t to be bothered in any way more than a gentle offering of emotional support.  
To them, it was David’s day, but to him, it was – and always would be for the rest of his own life – Richard’s day.

He spent the morning doing his usual routine, trying to keep busy. In the previous years he had learned that dwelling did little more than render him mentally detached for the rest of the day, and, as a result, unable to cope any better than he had the first year. The tried and true technique was to involve himself in some kind of unaffiliated activity that required him to think about the task at hand, with no room to let his mind wander, until evening came and he finally had the time to himself to turn inward and face his repressed emotions. Yes, this was the way to do it, and after more than a decade of practice he knew he would be alright as long as he adhered to this imposed schedule. He spent his morning baking, his afternoon chasing his pets around to trim nails and comb through fur, and his evening reading up on the latest in aviation news.  
It was when night was minutes away from falling that David finally came to rest and had time to think. Polly seated herself next to him on the outdoor furniture with a cup of tea and they gazed wordlessly across their piece of English countryside, silently bidding goodnight to the sun as it slipped away behind the trees and pulled the last streaks of golden sky down with it. The air started to cool and pressed heavily down on David’s skin, but with a gentle touch. As his eyes swept the scene they came to rest on the barn, and suddenly he felt something old and familiar well up in him. He set his tea down and abruptly stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch. Polly hesitated for a moment before addressing her departing husband.  
“David?”  
“Need to go to th’ barn,” he muttered, and as he quickly turned and started off in its direction, she understood.

He pulled the doors open and flicked on the lights, which were reluctant to obey at first, but finally did. He made his way past the various stored odds and ends to the other side of the building, where his “music corner” was. As he got closer to the electric keyboard that was pushed against the wall, he could feel his feet getting heavier and heavier with each step he took. Then he was standing before it, and the accompanying piano bench that had developed a layer of thick dust on its surface – never used once, by anybody, since the last one who had sat in it.  
David pulled up another stool from nearby and sighed as he took a seat, then procured a small white tea candle from one of his jacket pockets and a lighter from the other; he had put them there that morning because he had known, always known, that he would end up doing the same thing he always did this year as he had done every year since. Some rituals never changed, he admitted to himself. He lit the wick and placed it gently on the piano bench, watching the fire throw dancing shadows on the floor and the black and white keys behind it. Outside, a very light mist settled, the crickets began rehearsing for the night’s performance, the creatures of the evening came to life and began their motions; inside the barn, David was still.  
A single tear slipped silently from his watery blue eyes and made its way down the aged lines of his face, pausing on his jawline before freeing itself and sinking into the fabric of his coat.

He thought about the first time he had interacted with a member of his future band in a way that had really mattered, when their drummer had approached him nervously and asked him if he would be interested in playing additional guitar for the group, because Syd was experiencing some difficulties “keeping up.” He thought about the first time he had interacted with Richard, and how his eyes had sparkled with life and light and hidden laughter that from then on, he was determined to bring to the surface. He thought about the first time they all seemed to collectively realize how successful they were becoming at breaking through into the “real” music scene and moved on from pop stars to pioneers of a new kind of music that the world had never heard, and how he had exchanged glances with Richard when they heard themselves on the radio for the first time; the American disc jockey had been so enthusiastic about playing their entire record the two of them could do little else but laugh at the embarrassing but exciting prospect of _finally_ being taken seriously. He thought about the first time their bassist had lashed out so viciously at his bandmate and friend that David himself had felt the foreign threads of agreement weave into his head, and in retrospect he was able to recognize how wrong he had been to take sides against someone who was very clearly broken, fragmented, lost in his journey of life and self and family and was downright _depressed._

He let out a desperate sob, unrestrained and genuinely real, and thought about the regret and simultaneous relief that had filled his heart when his friend had called him and asked if he could rejoin the band to make music like the old days. David had realized how much he had missed him when he welcomed him back with literal open arms, and the feeling of embracing his withered but determined friend for the first time in several long years had filled his heart to the point of bursting. Yes, he had wished that everything would be as good as his band mate had remembered, but without the pressures of his nemesis to darken the mood. He thought about the joy he had felt when the keyboardist had agreed to play on his solo tour with him, and the fun they had had on the subsequent journey across the world; they were missing their original drummer, but it felt just as good to be in each other’s company again as they played Echoes, Time, and Wish You Were Here, among others: a song David had secretly dedicated to his musical partner each night as they harmonized with effortless ease and created a sublime melody that took him back to the “good old days” of when everything had been beautiful and _hopeful._  
He thought about the last time they had performed together, when he had joined the _On an Island_ crew, and how they had seamlessly performed with each other to intertwine their talents and musicality into something that was akin to sound making love in the air. Never before, and never again, would he be able to play guitar with a keyboardist that knew exactly when he was going to change chords and accurately predict _which_ chord it was going to be.  
As the crickets continued to chirp on and the fog thickened, he thought about the performance of Remember a Day he had done, more than a decade earlier. It was supposed to have been played with the song’s creator but was instead a solo effort despite the supporting band that was with him, and the mere memory of it reduced him to a quivering mass of tears. David fell over into his hands and wept openly, bitterly, droplets pouring from his eyes, to his hands, finally to his lap. Richard should have been there, with him, at his side – no, he should have been at the _front_ of the stage, laying down such beautiful chords and fingerings it would have brought tears to his eyes for an entirely different reason altogether. He cried out in anguish and thought of the last words he had spoken to him: _“It doesn’t look as if I’m going to make it back to France.”_ That beloved sanctuary, his refuge, his place of retreat and solace. Never again would he see it, set foot within it, finish his new album in it. Never again would his fingers touch a piano, an organ, a trombone, a guitar, a saxophone, any other instrument which he had learned to master in his 65 years of life on this Godforsaken earth.

David sat with his head in his hands, aware that the short tower of wax was now in danger of going out. He numbly pushed his fingers into his pocket and found another small candle. His hand shakily lit a new, stronger light, and he placed it next to the flickering one in respect to his elder as he replaced the lighter to his coat. This time, he stared into the flame; his tired gaze focused intently on the twinkling light emanating from the heat. How strongly Richard had burned in the beginning, the early days, until his light had been gradually extinguished – and he knew it wasn’t simply just one of their faults.  
But the tears now refused to fall as he continued to think about how, despite his guilt-ridden heart, he hadn’t been entirely complicit in his friend’s demise. Now he remembered how strongly he had fought their bassist over his treatment of their organist, later keyboardist, and the nasty arguments they’d had over whether or not they should have removed him earlier. He remembered when it had finally come to a rare physical altercation, right there in the studio. It followed a remark about how the band was finally worth something now that Richard was no longer in it. David’s fingers twitched even as he recalled the feeling of gripping a shirt in one hand as it shoved a body into the wall, the other hand poised to strike a face – and it would have, if a third hand hadn’t taken hold of his wrist to pull him away from his target. He still felt no remorse for his intentions. He remembered how he had fought, sometimes literally, for his bandmate – no, his _friend_ – to get the recognition he deserved over the years. The humble soul had always told him that he hadn’t needed to make such a fuss over his royalties but appreciated it all the same, and for that David felt his efforts were not in vain.

Before he realized it the old candle had long grown cold and the new one was close to being the same. He almost moved to say his goodbyes for the evening, ready to rejoin the light and warmth of his family home, but chastised himself for nearly forgetting the most important part of the routine. For the last time a final tear slipped away into the night, but for the first time the smallest of smiles crossed his lips. He moved closer to the candle and closed his eyes against the golden glow playing on his face, letting new memories surface and remind him of better times.

He drew in a quiet breath.

“Happy birthday to you…”

_They were jumping out from behind the piano and shouting “Surprise!” and laughing at Richard’s fearful response, which was instantly replaced with joy. They were gathering around him and showering him with congratulations, and though he was trying to hide it behind his long hair they could still see him blushing. Their drummer was producing a small cake that he had baked himself, coyly playing up his well-known culinary skills. Richard was laughing at David, who swiped a finger through the icing, much to the baker’s dismay._

“Happy birthday to you…”

_Richard was leaning heavily on the table. David was finding it difficult to keep his eyes from producing doubles of everything in front of him. Their other bandmates were drunkenly singing to him for probably the fifth time, feeling the need to start over every time one of them wasn’t perfectly in sync; because of this the candle on the cake was practically melting over the entire surface of the frosting, but nobody cared since they had already eaten half of it anyway. They were finally finishing the song and raising their glasses to toast each other’s beautiful performance. Richard was rolling his eyes but couldn’t help laughing. He was falling into his chair at David’s left and declaring that this was the best serenade he’d ever received – but also the only one. He was also expressing gratitude that they hadn’t tried to give him a surprise party again this year. David was protesting that it had been worth it to see the expression in his face, which earned him a smack on the shoulder._

“Happy birthday, dear Richard…” his voice faltered just the slightest bit with the name.

_The sun was shining down on the water around them, which lapped at the sides of the boat as if hungry to swallow it. Their bassist was approaching them with something in his hand, which opened to reveal several joints. They were each taking one and lighting it, then bringing the ends together in a sort of toast. Richard was chuckling at the sight. He was thanking them for pooling their funds to purchase enough of the drug to last them all day, while they were out on the Greek waters on his own boat. David was listening to his friends chatter next to him as he was closing his eyes and exhaling smoke into the warm summer air. The gentle motion of the boat and the sound of the Mediterranean in every direction was pulling him away from the physicality of the world, and he was finding himself wishing he could lay there forever, surrounded by good weather, good drugs, and good company. He was silently thinking to himself how lucky Richard was to have a summer birthday._

“…Happy birthday to you.”

_Richard was wondering why David was taking him aside while the rest of their touring entourage was still socializing around the dinner table. He was looking at him with a curious intrigue. David was thanking him for coming along to tour with him, and telling him how much it meant to see him so happy again after so many years off the road. He was reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box, then handed it to the other. Richard was opening it and found a small, flat piece of glass that appeared to be filled with water. He was looking back at David in wonder as he was explaining that it was water from the seas around the Greek isles contained within the small glass disc, so that even if its recipient wasn’t anywhere near his beloved ocean, he could always carry a part of it with him wherever he went. Richard was beaming and expressed his deepest gratitude, pulling his friend into a hug. David was smiling too, grateful to be able to coax out that authentic happiness that looked so natural on Richard’s face but showed itself far too infrequently. His arm remained around his shoulders as he led them back to the table._

David opened his eyes and smiled again. The sounds of the night permeated his meditation and grounded him back to the present. He was alone, but he knew at the same time that he wasn’t. His gaze turned to the small flame once more.

“Happy birthday, my friend. It was a joy, a pleasure, and an honor… and I love you.”

The candle yielded to his breath and he rose to collect the waxy remains.

**Author's Note:**

> Well I originally intended this to be for September but if you're reading this long after I posted then it still could be huh  
> Though it's a bit sad, happy birthday Richard <3 I owe a lot of who I am today to you  
> Based on multiple real occasions


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